


Safety on the Perilous Sea

by hyacinth_sky747



Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-15
Updated: 2012-04-15
Packaged: 2017-11-03 17:49:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/384191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hyacinth_sky747/pseuds/hyacinth_sky747
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John gets nervous when Sherlock's in danger without him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Safety on the Perilous Sea

 

  
John packed Sherlock’s suitcase with a heavy heart. Sherlock often left John’s side to waltz into danger but he was usually in London, where John could get to him quickly, bringing his gun and the emergency medical supplies he’d sewn into the lining of his coat after the night at the pool. This time Sherlock was going abroad, to Montreal. There’d be an ocean between them, no chance for last minute rescues.

So the pang of sadness he felt was stronger than the everyday ones. He put a torch and some spare batteries in the pocket of the case. He wanted to put the gun in there but that might cause a tiny snag at customs. He shoved in another pair of warm socks instead. He zipped the case shut and rested his hands on it for a moment. He let out a deep breath and wheeled the case into the sitting room.

Sherlock was in sitting in the lamplight, staring at the wall.

“Time to be off, my friend.”

Sherlock smiled up at him.

“I’ll just throw a few things in my case.”

John pointed down at it. “Taken care of.”

Sherlock’s face went soft. “I find you indispensible.”

 

John insisted on riding to the airport with Sherlock. Sherlock didn’t find this odd, or if he did he didn’t say anything.

“You don’t have to come in, John. Go home.”

John was already out of the cab and taking charge of the suitcase.

“It’s fine.”

He wheeled the suitcase and waited while Sherlock checked himself in to his flight. He took Sherlock’s hand as they walked to the security check point. Sherlock looked at him, puzzled for a moment, but he didn’t object, just let John lead him to the queue. When it was his turn to pass through John clapped him firmly on the shoulder.

“Be well, Sherlock.”

John walked away. He didn’t let himself limp until he’d gone around a corner. Then he sat in a chair and watched the people come and go for a minute or ten. He wished Sherlock was sitting with him, talking too loudly about all the things he’d noticed in regards to the strangers walking past. After a time John’s hand stopped shaking and he could walk without limping but the sadness remained, like he had swallowed cold stones that had lodged in his throat and his belly and his heart.

~*~

John didn’t need a degree in psychology to figure out that keeping busy would be healthy for him in Sherlock’s absence. He signed on for more shifts at the clinic, wrote up the last few cases on the blog, and cleaned the flat. Lestrade called on him twice for some medical expertise in matters relating to a case. That had felt good, though John suspected that Lestrade was just being kind. Surely Scotland Yard had people they consulted on a regular basis in these matters.

That didn’t stop him from accepting an invitation to dine with Lestrade’s family one evening, or have a few pints with him on another occasion. He made himself visit Harry. He gladly helped Mrs. Hudson with small repairs around the house. He went on a few dates.

The dates were pleasant. All of them were nice, interesting women who liked John and whom John liked. He only saw each of them once. He let the last one take him to bed. She made it clear that she didn’t want love, just a laugh and a fuck and a cuddle and a night of pushing all the sadness of the world away.

She was a pleasure to roll onto the sheets. She didn’t bat an eye when John produced a strap-on sometime after midnight. They kept at it until dawn.

She pulled on her clothes and grabbed her purse.

“Think of me fondly?”

“I think I’m a bit in love with you.” John kissed her hand. She smiled.

“That’s nice. I’ll keep that close to my heart. It’s good to have someone a bit in love with you.”

She left. Over his toast and tea John realized he didn’t remember her name. He still liked her a lot. She’d made him forget his worry for a few pleasant hours. John had another cup of tea and went to bed.

~*~

The cold was one of those creeping ones that gnawed at his throat and made his ears ache, but otherwise let him carry on for three days. They were a good three days because Sherlock had sent word that he was coming home. On the fourth day the weather changed for the worse. The cold exploded into John’s sinuses and left him snotty and irritable. His shoulder ached with damp and his leg insisted that it was injured. He still met Sherlock at the airport.

He was drunk on cold medicine and only managed to say hello before he grabbed Sherlock’s suitcase with one hand and Sherlock’s hand with the other and started to drag them to a cab. He couldn’t quite manage it. His shoulder did not want to pull the case and his leg wanted him to lean on Sherlock.

Sherlock stopped him. He took the case and put an arm around John’s waist.

“John,” Sherlock said.

It was just one word, just John’s name, but it said more than that. It said, ‘I missed you’, and ‘You silly man,’ and ‘Did you have to fall so spectacularly apart?’

Sherlock got them a cab. John put his head on Sherlock’s shoulder and fell asleep on the ride home.

~*~

In the morning John woke to the fire alarm going off and Sherlock shrieking in the kitchen. John threw back the covers and hurried down the stairs.

“You had to have an experiment go wrong your first morning back?” John yelled over the alarm. He grabbed a chair and tried to climb up to disable the alarm. His leg would not go. John was furious. It was a perfectly good leg but it refused to obey him. Sherlock gently moved him aside and shut off the alarm. Silence flooded into the room. Sherlock was wearing oven mitts and one of Mrs. Hudson’s aprons.

“What are you doing?”

“Cooking breakfast. You seemed a bit under the weather.”

“Did I?”

“Yes, your nose is red and you slept on me and I had to practically carry you up to your bed, and I took off your shoes. You’re welcome.”

“You’re making me breakfast? You?” John smiled and stopped gripping his thigh. He went to the tissue box on the counter, which was empty. He wiped his nose on his sleeve.

“Don’t you take care of yourself when I’m away? You take care of both of us when I’m here. The milk’s gone off for heaven’s sake.”

“Has it?”

“Yes. I can’t cook. Shall I go get some egg sandwiches?”

John smiled. “No case then?”

“Certainly there’s a case. You can write it up when you’re feeling more yourself.”

“What is it this time? Murder? Lost heirlooms? Stolen top secret documents?”

“No! Far more interesting. You can call it, The Case of the Sickly Doctor and How on Earth the Sociopath Got Him to Feel Better. I’ll give you a clue. It starts with Egg and ends with Sandwiches.”

Which just proves how incredibly dim a genius can be. Sherlock could have brought back fish and chips for breakfast. Breakfast didn’t matter. What mattered was that John was not alone in the howling wilderness of the world.

~*~

Sherlock stood on the wet pavement of Baker Street and smiled at his city. He beamed at the people passing by on the way to their offices and shops. He adored them. True, they were all so very dim and got themselves into dreadful muddles that they couldn’t find their ways out of. They needed him. London needed him. The city was his and it needed him and Sherlock needed the city and the people in it and all their little problems.

He felt, as he strode down Baker Street, like the captain of a ship. London was his domain entirely. He knew every inch of it. He could feel it moan and quake beneath his feet. The really delightful thing about London was that it was tossed on a sea of humanity. That humanity would bring storms and doldrums and odd creatures beyond count for him to battle and rage at and study.

It had brought him John. John Watson, who had been clinging to a cane to keep him afloat and hiding a pistol in case this sea got to be too much for him. It hadn’t. John wasn’t a coward and he hadn’t quite lost hope. He must have known Sherlock was on the horizon.

And, to extend the metaphor, Sherlock’s ship had needed John. Sherlock had always felt like the vessel was on the brink of mutiny until he’d fished John out of the sea. With John on board the little hassles of life were smoothed over. The crew was happy. They had a doctor and everyone knows that when the doctor is not well all hands must be on deck to ensure his recovery. The well-being of their whole world depended on it.

He went to John’s usual breakfast place. The staff knew them both by now.

“No John today?” the middle-aged waitress asked. She had two sons. One was a meth addict, the other was a plumber.

“He’s not well. He’s sick. He’s been shot.”

Her face paled.

“Not recently. In the war. It bothers him when the weather changes.”

“Oh!”

She gave them free coffees and little pastries to have with their tea.

“Tell him to pop round soon, love.”

Sherlock beamed at her.

“They’re so adorable. Look after each other,” Sherlock heard her say to the cook as he exited the shop. That made him smile. He was looked after. Usually. And he could look after John too. He got a text from Lestrade on the way home requesting his presence at Scotland Yard. He nipped into Baker Street to hand the food off to Mrs. Hudson.

“Look at you, doing errands!”

“Pop these up to John, dear. He’s a bit under the weather. Literally.”

“Oh, I can sympathize. My hip.”

“Have my coffee and sandwich. It will likely go cold by the time I return.”

Mrs. Hudson kissed his cheek and Sherlock was off again, bounding through the streets, eschewing cabs in favor of breathing in the morning mist and exhaust fumes and early morning energy of his city.

He found Lestrade staring at the wall of his office. It was an attitude that Sherlock knew well. He admired a man that could think deeply. It took Lestrade a moment to realize that Sherlock was seated across from him.

“Ah, Sherlock,” Lestrade blinked and looked around. “No John?”

“He’s been shot.”

Lestrade stood so rapidly his chair fell over.

“No, not recently.” Sherlock really must remember the effect that statement had on people. “In the war. It bothers him on occasion.”

“Was he really? I’d no idea. His leg, was it?”

“Shoulder. The leg is psychosomatic. Mostly. The bullet grazed his hip but that was like a nasty case of road rash that healed ages ago. He insists upon feeling it though.”

“Poor bugger.”

“Yes. You wanted to see me?”

“Um. Right, I texted you. Sorry. I’ve solved it.”

“What?”

“Don’t sound so surprised. I do on occasion. It’s my job and everything.”

Sherlock looked around. He should say something. What would John say?

“That’s brilliant. Really very extraordinary. Well done.”

“Thanks, Sherlock. You’re channeling John, I see. Shall we go see him?”

“I always want to see John.”

Sherlock pressed his lips together. He did not blush.

“You said that out loud.”

“Yes. I know.”

“You look a little red.”

Sherlock stood. “Shall we just---“

They walked. Sherlock had a need for cold, damp air on his face. He needed to stop and get John tissues.

“One of my sons is gay,” Lestrade said apropos of nothing.

“Is that relevant?”

“I’m just throwing it out there. I knew it from when he was a wee lad and I tried everything to make easy for him but he struggled with it for a long while. It broke my heart a little. I’d love him regardless but he had to find a way to be comfortable with himself.”

Sherlock just walked. The sun was trying to come out. It was pretty. The sunlight splashed down onto the pavement and fell into the puddles. Soon, the splashes of sun would murder the traces of rain, leaving a crime scene. Perfect. Beautiful. John would find it beautiful. He’d find a way to make it seem beautiful without getting it wrapped up with murder.

“John might find it hard.”

“John’s good at it just that sort of thing,” Sherlock said. He paused. Perhaps he was having a slightly different conversation than Lestrade was.

“You’ve slept together then?”

“I was speaking of the beauty of puddles and sunlight. Finding it. John is not gay.”

“Are you sure?”

“Dates women.”

“But does he date men as well? Some people do both you know.”

“No data,” Sherlock said. He was talking like a robot. He wished John was here to translate his emotions for him. But then, Sherlock didn’t think John should hear this particular conversation.

“Do you date men, Sherlock?”

“I don’t date.”

“But if you did. If you decided to start dating. If you signed up for a dating service would you say you were looking for men or women?”

Sherlock huffed in annoyance. “I wouldn’t date. I have John.”

Sherlock stopped walking. It took Lestrade a moment to realize it and he had to come back for him. Sherlock was in the middle of the street. Lestrade pulled on his arm.

“Come on, you great lump. For a detective it took you a terribly long time to deduce that.”

“Deduce what?”

“That there’s a little bolt of lightning out there that’s meant for you. Its name is John Watson.”

Sherlock stopped walking again and Lestrade tugged on his arm. “I knew the night of the drugs bust.”

“How did you know?”

“I didn’t know. I saw.” Lestrade had a twinkle in his eye. He was enjoying himself immensely.

“Saw? Who did you see reacting? Me? Or John?”

“Both. You, in the way you sought his opinions, checked in with him like. I knew he was gone when he shot that cabbie for you.”

Sherlock tried to stop walking but Lestrade hadn’t let go of Sherlock’s arm and hauled him onwards. “Did you think I wouldn’t figure it out?”

“You’re not going to tell.” It was too late to do it now. Lestrade would have to explain why he’d kept quiet for so long.

Lestrade didn’t answer. They were at the door to 221B anyway.

“On second thought, I don’t think you ought to come in. John’s not feeling well. You must miss him but I’ll bring him round when he’s feeling better.”

“Right, off you go.”

“That’s it? I thought you wanted to see him? Don’t you miss him?”

“I saw him while you were away.”

“Did you? Why?” Honestly, sometimes Lestrade could be as mystifying as John.

Lestrade shrugged. “I like him. He’s a good man to have around, John Watson.”

Lestrade just walked away. He left Sherlock standing on the pavement with his thoughts whirling. Lestrade was good. He was nice to John. He liked John. Sherlock liked John. He stood in front of the door thinking these same thoughts for ten minutes. He shook himself. A person would have to be mad not to like John. John was likeable and handy in tight corner. Sherlock turned to walk slowly up the stairs.

He couldn’t think of a person that didn’t like John. If he could Sherlock thought he might go find them and hit them.

“Did you eat anything?” John croaked at him. He was in on the sofa with his bed pillows. Sherlock tossed the new box of tissues at him.

“You make me want to hit people.”

John paused and screwed up his face in the way that told Sherlock he’d said something wrong and John was trying to figure it out. That was Sherlock’s favorite John face. Most people just assumed he was a psychopath and left it at that. Not John, John knew there was more to him.

“People that don’t like you,” Sherlock added.

“Oh! You were trying to be nice.”

“Yes.”

“Well done.”

“A bit good?”

“A bit. Who doesn’t like me?”

“No one. It’s just that if someone did. I’d want to hit them.”

“Don’t hit my sister, okay?”

“Okay. You can hit Mycroft if you ever want to.”

“Thanks. Maybe someday.”

That made Sherlock want to kiss John. It wasn’t a thing that was normally done in a male friendship. But then, Sherlock wasn’t a normal man. John wasn’t normal either. John was extraordinary.

Sherlock crossed the room and put a kiss on John’s cheek. Sherlock wasn’t sure what he expected John to do but he certainly didn’t expect him to glow as if he’d figured out a way to produce light of his own.

“Sorry about the shit homecoming. I did miss you.”

“I know,” Sherlock said. “It wasn’t shit. You were here.”

~*~

“I’ll text if I need you.”

“You won’t.”

“It’s damp and cold and you’re still sick. Why do I have to be the doctor too? Just stay here and get better.”

Sherlock was holding John’s hand. It’s something he’d started doing two days ago and he couldn’t seem to stop. John squeezed Sherlock’s fingers.

“I like it better when we’re in danger together.”

“I know. I’ll be careful.”

“You won’t,” John said again. He knew Sherlock too well.

“I’ll call my doctor if I get into trouble. I have to go.”

It was John who kissed Sherlock this time. His lips pressed against the corner of Sherlock’s mouth.

Sherlock squeezed John’s hand and stood to put on his coat.

“I am more careful now, John. I have something to come home to.”

With that, Sherlock swirled out of the flat leaving John with worry and sadness and joy tugging at his heart.

Sherlock didn’t come home for two days. He texted occasionally so that John knew he was still alive. John rested and tried not to worry and put his illness behind him. It was cold the morning Sherlock came home. Something was wrong with heat again and John was huddled under the covers of his bed waiting for dawn to come.

Sherlock came instead. He was damp and his cheeks were flushed with excitement.

“You had fun without me.”

“You’re not asleep? I just wanted to let you know I was in.”

“Take off your clothes and get into my bed.”

Sherlock looked like he’d been hit over the head with a blunt object. John smiled. It wasn’t often that he could surprise Sherlock.

The smile seemed to set Sherlock into motion and he began to unwrap himself from his layers of clothes. When he was down to his boxer shorts and socks he drew back the covers and slid into the bed. He shivered for a few minutes while John stroked the hair back from his face.

“You need to be kissed,” John said. He cupped Sherlock’s face in his hands and kissed him. That kiss banished the cold from Sherlock’s body. It left him gasping and clinging to John’s shoulders.

“You need to be loved hard. By me. Is that right?”

“I need to love you,” Sherlock said. His voice was all deep and breathless and John responded to it by arching his back and presenting his neck for Sherlock to suck on.

 

It was light out when Sherlock collapsed on top of him. John ran his hands up and down Sherlock’s back and just breathed for awhile.

“I’ll hit anyone who doesn’t like you.”

“Good God, half of London would be battered.”

“You make me hate the world. How can everyone not love you?”

“I was meant for you, John.”

“Thank God,” John said. “How the fuck did I get to be so lucky?”

He kissed Sherlock again. It was a slow, languid kiss that promised to grow in heat and need. It was a kiss that promised to keep them in bed until well into the afternoon. It was a kiss that needed to be revisited for years and years to come.  



End file.
